


Electrostatics

by willowcabins



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Community: hc_bingo, Edge of tomorrow, F/F, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 12:47:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1858581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowcabins/pseuds/willowcabins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edge of Tomorrow AU: Myka Bering, helped by Sergeant Wells, saved the world after being stuck in a time loop in which every time she died, she would relive the day. Every time she relived the day, Helena would not remember who she was. But now the war is won, and Myka begins living days in the same order as everyone else, though she finds it more difficult.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Electrostatics

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an AU Week Edit by tumblr user ellabellbee which can be found [here](http://ellabellbee.tumblr.com/post/89483462407/myka-bering-is-one-of-the-top-strategic-minds-in)
> 
> If you have not seen the movie, the only context you REALLY need is the basic plot and a note that every time Cage (Tom Cruise in the movie) wakes up to relive the day, he is woken by a man shouting "up you get, maggot!".
> 
> h/c bingo prompt – counselling

The after, slower days

"Major Bering," she calls, saluting her. She stands straight, shoulders back. Although her face is strict and emotionless, Myka can tell she is nervous. Myka can tell Helena is anxious to get out in the field and confirm the reports from the Chinese and the Russians. She doesn't like second hand information much, and right now Operation Downfall is weighing her down.

Myka wants to step forward and hold Helena, tell her everything is okay, tell Helena that /she/ saved the world, but instead she just mutters "at ease, soldier."

Because in the end, Helena has never met Myka.

 

"The War is Won!" it’s an exclamation every newspaper and newsreel repeats for weeks; there are interviews and chat shows and reporters who all keep Myka busy by asking questions. She is on air every day. Praising the General, explaining just how Sergeant Wells' work at Verdun had damaged the alien life's central nervous system.

She watches and explains and lies.

A millions dollar smile to hide her hands, which are shaking under the table.

 

"Ew, it looks like a maggot." Its three kids, standing around a washed up mic. It's simple, innocent, but up on the bridge, a Major begins hyperventilating as the constricting feeling of repetition closes around her throat. It's a genuine coincidence that a decorated war hero, wearing a dark hoodie and civilian clothes, catches sight of the collapsing General. She crosses the street at a slow jog and comes to stand in front of Myka as Myka slides down the railing, her vision beginning to blur as she gasps for hair.

"Major Bering," a familiar voice says in confusion, and Myka’s breathing speeds up. Her lungs claw for air; she inhales, desperately, but it’s too fast and too shallow and nothing reaches her brain. One hand is on the bars of the railing, clutching; her knuckles are white. Helena is at her side, lowering her down on the side walk. "Take two breaths in for every breath out," she commands. Darkness creeps in at the side of Myka's vision. Her skin crawls as she feels her body protesting, collapsing, trying to pull itself together.

"Major Bering! Breathe!" Helena repeats, and this time she's shaking Myka's shoulder. Myka stares at her, just stares at her, and tries to sync her breathing with Helena's. She can't; her lungs are heaving and her body is shaking. Helena begins to take exaggerated breaths, and then take two breaths in for every breath she takes out. Myka copies her, labouredly; her lungs relax, she begins to feel less shaky.

An ambulance arrived. Myka didn't even notice someone called one. Around her there is a crowd of people. "Isn't that the woman from the telly?" A child asks a mother, and Myka tries to hide between Helena. Helena just stares at her, concerned, and hands her over to the paramedics.

"No, don't leave me," Myka begs, her hands still shaking. Helena is confused, but complies with the request.

"Do you know this woman?" A paramedic asks Helena and she nods, and then shakes her head.

"I met her once, at an event," she says. "I think she had a panic attack."

"What triggered it?" The paramedic asks. She shakes her head.

"I don't know. I was walking into town and I saw her collapse. I don't even know her first name."

"It's Myka," Myka interrupts. Helena glances at her and gestures for the paramedic to ask her questions.

"Major Bering, do you mind accompanying us to the hospital? We'd like to run some checks."

Myka is strong enough to stand up now. She pulls herself up by the railing of the bridge and waves the paramedic off. "No need," she assures him. "I was just feeling a bit faint." The man looks sceptical.

"It's an innocent checkup," he tries to assure her. "Highly recommended for soldiers who saw battle."

"She didn't see battle," Helena scoffs, and Myka walks away.

There are too many Myka's in her head, all clamouring for attention. Too many memories of Helena, bruised and bloodied and sometimes dead. There are too many puncture wounds and bleeding shoulders and dusty faces. She can't shake them, and yet they are all hers.

"Do you want drink?" She's falling into step next to Myka, offering her a hip flask. Myka snorts, pauses and then accepts it. It's gin, and the alcohol is biting and tastes like medicine. Just what Myka needs? Myka wipes her lips with her sleeve and hands the flask back, hands shaking slightly. Helena doesn't comment.

"Thanks," Myka mutters hoarsely, both grateful for the booze and the help. Earlier.

"What happened back there?" Helena asks quietly. Myka squeezes her eyes closed. She promised herself. She promised herself she would not tell Helena this. But suddenly, she can't stand it anymore. 289 versions of Helena would kill her if she didn't tell them, so why should this one be any difference.

"Verdun. You killed an Alpha, and experienced the same day for 300 reruns." Helena stops dead in her tracks. "I know, you never told anyone. Do you want to know how many times I had this conversation with you last month? About 290 times. Every time I would tell you I was you, in Verdun. Every time you responded that I shouldn't know that, and every time I would explain that you sent me."

"What day was this?" Helena asks quietly. It’s a different question. It’s a new question. Myka is almost thrown off.

"The day before Operation Downfall."

"You killed the Alpha during Operation Downfall?"

"I fought in that bloodbath 290 times. The only reason why that blood bath didn't occur this time around was because you and I put a handful of grenades in an Omega."

"You mean that theory about Alpha and Omegas was actually true?"

"All of it. And we killed them."

"So you have seen battle..." Helena mutters in realisation. Myka smirks.

"289 times," she agrees. "But all of those times don't count." Helena looks at Myka with a combination of pity and sympathy, and it’s a look that Myka can't stand. She closes her eyes and looks away.

"You know I spent nearly with you," she tells the sidewalk. Helena doesn't say anything; Myka looks up, to stare at her. "I spent the better part of a year with you, and it always only lasted 24 hours."

"Now you're out though," she breathes. Myka scoffs.

"I don't think I'll ever really be out."

They're at the gates of the London City Airport. Heathrow is slowly being demilitarized; all the essential bases have moved here. She knows Helena has a room somewhere in the airport too, but right now she needs to be alone again.

"Don't let that control you," Helena warns. Myka leaves. Perhaps this Helena really doesn't understand.

 

There is still a training room, although no one practices with suits anymore. They have been shelved; Myka knows in the next five years she will be drafting laws about using those suits in battle. But right now, she puts on one. The airplane hangar is empty; its 2am. She turns on the propellers slowly; they whirl like mimics. She flinches, clenches her teeth, and strides in the ring.

She can't sleep anymore. Every time she closes her eyes, she hears that awful clucking sound. Mimics moved too much with too much speed; they looked like helicopter propellers. And there are too many of those hovering around Myka's room. She wakes up in a cold sweat, shivering. She's started taking sleep medication, but it doesn't stop the tremor in her hands.

The whirring of the propellers here is almost comforting.

The first one comes at her; she shoots it.

Somewhere in her head, she hears Helena shouting "again!"

She shoots again.

"Behind you!"

She spins and shoots.

Two are coming at her at once. She ducks, yanks a handgun from her side and shoots with both guns. The propellers fall, and somewhere a voice says "Well done."

Myka shoots; it’s her first instinct. She misses. She's never been good at shooting people. For one, this one is staying still. She presses a button; the helicopters stop. She approaches, and Myka knows that walk well.

"You don't have clearance to be here," Myka snaps. She smirks.

"Name dropping can get you far with the security man. Though I am always careful to use my friendly nickname, "Full Metal Bitch", when I am asking for favours."

"That name never actually suited you," Myka tells her, stepping out of the suit. Helena raises an eyebrow.

"And yet I tried too hard. Where did I go wrong, Major Bering?"

"Call me Myka."

"Myka. Did I always call me that?"

"No. Most of the time you just called me Bering. It's easier to shout, I think."

"Did I shout at you a lot?" Myka narrows her eyes at Helena.

"Why do you want to know?"

"When I finished my run, Dr. Calder listened to me. I told her every version of reality. She listened patiently as I told her who died and who lived and how they died and how they didn't."

“Did it help?” Helena scoffs.

“Of course it didn’t.”

They train together in the hanger tonight. They are an odd couple; Myka anticipates Helena’s moves and naturally syncs with her; they have, after all been doing it for nearly a year. But it’s a dance to which Helena has never learnt the steps; she stumbles and falls, but Myka doesn’t mind. At least she feels like she is doing something useful.

She wakes up, bathed in sweat, the word “maggot” ringing through her head.

 

Even the City Airport is being dismantled. Business is as usual; soldiers are leaving. The last of the people who signed up at the beginning of the war left today. Now it’s only the career army that’s left behind. Myka has declined several offers to go back home. She is still not sleeping.

 

“You have all the symptoms of a soldier suffering PTSD.”

Dr. Calder is not a soft woman; she is stiff and sits tall in her wooden chair, but Myka finds her warm. Perhaps because of her eyes; they are brown and bright and smart. Myka likes that. Dr. Calder’s diagnosis is spoken aloud to a quiet office, where the only interruption to Dr. Calder’s scribbling on a notepad is the constant and unstoppable beat of Myka’s foot against the linoleum.

“How have you been sleeping?” Myka looks up and scoffs.

“I have PTSD,” she replies; “how do you think I have been sleeping?” Dr. Calder smiles and puts down her pen.

“You already knew you had PTSD, Myka. You’re a smart woman. It’s why you ended up in this mess, anyway. So why are you here? Do you want me to prescribe you medication? Would you like me to give you hints? Confirmation that your pain is real? There is a support group I could recommend to you. But what do you want?”

Myka pauses. She puts her hands together and tries very hard to sit still and pull herself together.

“I don’t sleep anymore,” she starts, quietly. “I have nightmares. Every night, I relive a version of that day that I already experienced. Some nights, I die. Those are the good nights.”

“What happens on the bad nights?” Myka’s eyes slide from the doctor on the chair and to the window. The sun filters through half drawn curtains, and dust dances therapeutically in the light. Behind the curtains, a couple of commercial flights are pulling in. The base is slowly becoming an airport again. Myka crosses her arms, hugging her chest, and begins talking quietly.

“Everyone dies. I lived that day 289 times; you know what I did once? I had tried everything, and I had failed so often. That day, when I woke up, I looked up at the sergeant and I knew it would be hopeless. I knew we would all die; I met my comrades and I could already see their bodies decaying on the French beach. Don’t you see? No matter how many things I tried, I always _always_ lost. The mimics were too many; they were too good, and I was alone. I was always alone.”

“So I stayed here. I stayed in London. I went to a pub, grabbed a drink and watched the mimics invade London on the television. I was killed by a mimic as I tried to run home. I later realised that was ironic. That mimic let me try again.

Because you know all I was thinking as I sat in that pub? All I could think, as the beer turned to ash and dust in my mouth, is that I let her die out there, alone and helpless. I let _her_ die even though I could have changed that. I let her die, even though she deserves so much better.

Why? Because I was _tired_.” There are tears running down Myka’s cheek. She wipes them away with her sleeve; angry.

“Is that what you dream about?” Dr. Calder’s voice is soothing.

"Sometimes."

Myka has other dreams. Other dreams in which she watches as Helena trips and falls, and she can't say anything. She tries to shout across the sandy beach, but her voice is stuck in her throat and she watches, helpless, as Helena's fragile body cracks and breaks under Mimic attacks.

"How would you describe your relationship with Sergeant Wells?" Myka's gaze shifts from the window. Dr. Calder isn't smiling; she is serious. Myka smiles sadly and wipes her face with her sleeve one last time before getting up.

"In what reality?" she asks, as if it’s an answer to Dr. Calder's question, and walks out. Dr. Calder lets her leave without protest. 

 

That night, Myka is back in the hanger. It’s being emptied out: there are only seven propellers left. Myka doesn’t let herself worry about that. Tonight, she deals with tonight.

She starts all seven propellers and steps into the familiar suit. As she tightens the chest piece, she breathes out. There is nothing graceful in the dance of large machinery spewing bullets at aging, discoursed targets, and yet Myka takes joy in it. She feels a pain deep in her body as she pushes her fragile human frame to its limits. A propeller slices her shoulder – she cries out in pain, and then slams into the metal with her reinforced arm. The propeller falters, and then slams Myka in the ribs. Myka falls back, winded.

The propellers power down.

Footsteps ring across the hanger.

“I see your session with Dr. Calder helped,” she comments, voice soaked with irony. She appears above Myka, arms crossed, face sceptical. Helena offers Myka a strong arm, which Myka accepts. She is surprised how easily Helena hauls up Myka in her heavy suit. Helena doesn’t step back and Myka is suddenly aware that she is sweaty and bruised and bleeding.

“Last time we were in here, you shot me,” she blurts out. Helena and pushes Myka’s hair out of her sweaty face.

“I remember that,” Helena breathes, eyes tracing the line of Myka’s neck. For a second, a sliver of hope cuts through Myka, and she suppresses a gasp. Helena’s _remembers_? And then she realises with a crushing disappointment. Myka steps back; chucky electronic suit making her distance more noticeable. Helena doesn’t remember _her_ ; Helena remembers the feeling of dying.

The realization hurts more than it should.

 

“How do you feel today?” Its 62 days since the war has ended. The first commercial flight has landed at this airport today. The world is slowly recovering, reconstruction and healing. Myka has felt unsettled and watched all day.

“Paranoia is a symptom of PTSD,” she tells Dr. Calder, not looking away from the window. It’s cloudy but bright outside today, but Myka does not squint into the light. “I know it, is, and I have identified this feeling as paranoia.”

“And yet?” Dr. Calder prompts. Myka’s eyes slid from the window to Dr. Calder, and then outside again.

“How am I still unsettled?” She mutters, glancing down at her hands. A slight tremor shakes them, and she clenches them into fists.

“Your body is not a machine,” Dr. Calder starts before she details the slow process of healing. But Myka knows this. Nothing is instantaneous. There is no ‘off’ switch she has access too. She is not made out of sparks and circuits.

If she were, the circuits in her body would be overloaded. Thin copper wires, burnt because there are too many Myka’s inside her memory. Too many people, clawing out of her body, possessing her flesh as they each try and dictate her movements. Myka breathes in and tries to clear her head. Her eyes slide back to Dr. Calder as she tries to listen again.

But there is too much electricity in Myka.

 

Myka got a letter from Tracy that morning.

“Why don’t you answer my emails? Are you alright Myka? The only time I ever see you is on TV. Can we Skype soon?”

Myka doesn’t know what to do with the letter.

She doesn’t mention it to Dr. Calder. Stagnation and paralysis are not the signs of a healing individual, but Myka doesn’t want her to know.

 

As Myka approaches the hanger that evening, she realises there is light from under the door. There is not usually light in the hanger; it’s nearly midnight. She opens the door cautiously; it creaks and she winces as the chatter in the room stops. There are soldiers in her hanger, sitting around a table they have dragged into the middle.

They are all holding cards and grinning at Myka sheepishly. A short burly man is the first to speak.

“Major Bering,” he says, holding out his hand to introduce himself. “Pete Lattimer. I am also from over the pond.” Myka smiles feebly and shakes his hand.

“Hello Sergeant; call me Myka,” she greets him, confused. “What are you doing?” She asks, nodding towards the table.

“We ship out in the morning,” he explains. “The Brits are going back to their base in the Lake District, and Steve and I here go back to the homeland.” Steve nods at Myka from the other side of the table. “So we decided we should all play one last game together.”

“Join us.” Helena is sitting at the head of the table, tapping her cards against the table. Myka looks at her, surprised, and she cocks an eyebrow. Myka walks around the table, pulls out a chair and sits down next to Helena. The game resumes; she watches quietly.

“You’re leaving.” She says the sentence to quietly, so only Helena looks up. She nods.

“We got the order this morning. The war is over. They’re demilitarizing this place completely. You’ll probably have to leave soon too.” Myka doesn’t let herself think like that. She closes her eyes and breathes out, holding her hands under the table. That way, no one can see that they’re shaking.

“Deal Myka in,” Pete says with a grin. Myka smiles back. It feels weird; almost like her body is remembering what it’s like to be a real human. A flask is being passed around. Helena offers the flask to Myka.

Myka hasn’t had a drink in at least two months. Not since that day London was invaded while she nursed a beer. She takes a swig, and the whiskey is round and cheap in her mouth. It feels oddly refreshing.

 

 

They are standing by the door of Helena’s dorm. Myka walked back with Helena; it’s in the early hours of the morning, and the air is crisp. Helena shifts from one foot to the other. “I should probably go now,” she mutters, gesturing at the door. Myka wants to smile and let her leave; she wants to be that strong person that can look at this Helena and not see 269 others. She wants to be able to say goodbye to Helena and leave her, body intact. Helena does not need to see the stiches straining to stop Myka from falling apart.

But she is not strong. She looks at Helena; in the early morning light, her eyes and hair nearly glitter. She looks two months older than the Helena that kissed Myka when they were going to die, and yet she also looks the same. Myka can’t decide whether it’s the steely look in her eyes, or that bottomless that seems to pull her in.

Today, she obliges it.

She pulls at Helena’s belt loops and kisses her. It’s an awkward bump of the lips, but then Myka pushes Helena back against the metal wall of the corridor, and kisses her again. This time Helena opens her mouth against Myka’s, emitting a light gasp as she pulls Myka closer by her ass. Myka has imagined this a million times; she did have 269 deaths to remember this one face by. She could map out Helena’s whole body in the flashes of life she sees before she dies (again and again). She has imagined this, and yet every time she has, she thought Helena’s skin would be cold and her own clammy hands desperately trying to steal her Helena’s breath.

Here they are alive, and Helena is hot; unbelievably hot underneath Myka. There is a savage hunger inside her as she grabs the back of Helena’s head and tilts her up fervently. She is feral as she licks, deeper, into Helena’s mouth. Helena moans into her mouth, blissfully overwhelmed by Myka’s desperate attack. She grinds into Myka’s thigh and suddenly Myka _needs_ to feel her. A hand slips under Helena’s shirt, nails digging into supple flesh, seeking an anchor against the coming despair. Helena breaks away from Myka’s mouth, gasping for air.  
“We can go inside,” she breathes, as Myka runs her teeth down Helena’s neck.

Helena is still a soldier, if a high ranking one; its dark and most her bunkmates are still playing cards, but Helena still puts up a towel around her bed while Myka watches.

In the dim light behind the towel, Myka pulls at Helena’s clothes, tugging and clawing until they come free, and Helena groans below her. Myka wants to devour Helena and make her scream. Helena’s already panting; breaths cut short by noises of appreciation as Myka licks, and then sucks, Helena’s sensitive clit. Her pelvis rocks forward and her thighs close around Myka’s face as she groans, louder than before, and electricity seem to explode and shimmer in her spine, making it rigid and paralysing her for a second. She fists her hands in Myka’s hair and pulls, trying to muffle her moan in her pillow. Myka knows she should be embarrassed for both of them, but right now, he universe extends only as far as the towel.

Myka is hungry for more; she bites down on Helena’s thighs and slides two fingers in, relishing Helena’s hot heat as she inhales her. Helena relaxes her thighs as she whines, hand pulling at Myka’s hair. Myka looks up, admiring the view as she watches Helena’s eye from the apex of her thighs.

“I want,” Helena gasps. Myka thrusts her hands faster; Helena keens again, hand clenching in Myka’s hair.

“What do you want?” Myka asks, her voice raspy.

“You,” Helena gasps, and this situation is so different, and so unexpected, and so new to Myka, that she just grins. Her hand speeds up even more. Her palm connects to Helena’s clit and Helena closes her eyes and pushes her head into the pillow.

“Are you sure?” Myka whispers into Helena’s thigh.

There is something blissful and all-encompassing about their night. Nothing else matters; it’s just the two of them, exploring each other. But in the end, Myka leaves. Helena winds an arm around her waist as Myka tries to find her bra.

“Don’t leave,” she pleads.

Would any of the other Helena’s have asked Myka that?

Myka closes her eyes and opens them again sadly.

“You shot me in the head forty-two times,” she whispers, and then she leaves.

It’s almost light outside. Myka pushes her hair out of her face; she is sweat drenched and looks ruffled and exhausted. She hopes no one will see her.

She will have to return to America soon, she supposes. She will have to reply to Tracy’s letter and take Dr. Calder’s pills.

In the end, thinking about tomorrow still feels like a wild impossibility to Myka.

 

**Author's Note:**

> you know how i can tell its REALLY summer? im writing fics while not sober #heckyeah (and thus i apologise for ALL THE TYPOS)


End file.
